Varieties
by Scarabbug
Summary: A series of one-shot stories centred on unusual character combinations and situations. Sonic X. Latest Chapter: Galaxina, Earthia.
1. Vanilla, Lindsey

**I set myself some simple rules: each fic I post here has to feature character interaction between at **_**least**_** two individuals from the **_**Sonic X**_** series, and to try and be original about which individuals I choose. So, no going for obvious ones like Sonic and Tails, or Sonic and Knuckles or Sonic and... well, Sonic and just about **_**anybody**_**, really. I heart the blue hedgehog and all, but he gets enough screen time just for being the star of the show. I'd like to try and be a little more original here. **

**So here goes nothing. Expect to see some understated characters ahead, as well as some of the better known and more popular ones. Reviews and concrit are appreciated. **

**These stories may contain spoilers. This chapter contains a semi-changed qupte from the online webcomic, Ozy and Millie.**

* * *

Checking the Sink, (Just In Case).

'It's so nice to see them all getting along,' Vanilla comments over the breakfast table during one of Lindsey's rare mornings at home. Lindsey has to admit that she agrees.

It's quite peculiar, really, all things considered. And there _are_ a great many things to consider (their species' being but one of them). Their children fall into different age groups, their tastes in fashion differ quite massively, and she could never in her wildest imaginings consider Vanilla on stage at the Oscars. They have so little in common.

And yet, there's _something_. A familiar aura that Lindsey Thorndyke recognizes all too well in herself. It's the kind of countenance that one only ever witnesses in a parent who has been separated from their child for longer periods of time than they would like.

It's enough for them to find things to talk about over croissants and lukewarm coffee (because be darned if Lindsey can get that machine to work properly), enough for them to smile fondly at the sound of two children descending a staircase with one of them talking a great deal louder than is probably necessary at this time of the morning.

...And to frown when the two of them enter the room and come close enough for them to make out exactly what they're saying.

'Are you _sure_ it was in here, Cream?'

'Um... quite sure. But it was moving very quickly, so I suppose it could have gotten out by now, if... oh, hello momma!'

Cream waves and smiles. Chris freezes and does _not_ smile. 'Uh. Hi mom. We were just... um...'

Oh dear.

He has _that_ look on his face again. Lindsey wouldn't be quick give herself any extra points for maternal presence, but she isn't absent from his life enough to not understand what _that _look means. Occasionally it means that somebody is coming down with something, but far more frequently it's the face he wears when something expensive has been broken. Lindsey knows that look very well indeed.

She can envision it down a phone line, in fact.

It's Vanilla who assumes the better of these two evils. 'Are you two quite alright, Cream, honey? You don't look especially well.'

Lindsey's son and Vanilla's daughter glimpse at each other uneasily. 'Um... yeah, we're alright, we were just... um...'

'Oh, it's nothing, momma,' Cream interrupts, and Lindsey knows that Vanilla is far from oblivious to the guilt in her daughter's tone. 'We're just playing. At... finding things.'

'Yeah. That's it. Finding things.' Chris coughs.

'Things which we kind of... lost in the house.'

'Which we really didn't _mean_ to lose, but they got away from us anyway... I mean _it_ got away.'

'But it's okay because we're going to get it back.'

'And it's really not Cream's fault.'

'And it's really not Chris's fault either, though he probably shouldn't have jumped the way he did and let it—'

'Uh. Cream?' Chris coughs just the way his father does when a phone conversation is about to end with the words "don't bother waiting up tonight, dear". '_Ixnay_ on the...' Chris pauses, seeming to realise s that his mother, having been in theatre for a large portion of her life, already _knows_ a good deal of Pigeon Latin. '...Um. You know.'

'Oh!' Realisation dawns on the girl's face, though Lindsey can't for the life of her imagine why. 'Yes! Sorry! I mean... um... It's really nothing.' Cream finishes their trail of conversation with a nervous squeak.

'...I see.' Vanilla doesn't appear to "see" at all. Or maybe she sees all too well. 'Well in that case, you had better go look for it very quickly, now, hadn't you dear? It would be a shame if you lost it.'

'Right,' Chris avoids Lindsey's gaze. 'Yeah. We... we should probably do that. Come on, Cream, let's go.'

He pulls her back by a hand and the door closes behind them. They vanish, as children are prone to do, as quickly as they had appeared.

It opens again just as Lindsey is raising her coffee cup to her lips. 'Um... mom? Just in case one of the... well, the _things_ which we lost track of appears in here? It's okay. It _is_ one of the non-poisonous varieties.'

'We checked a book and everything,' Cream's voice adds from around the corner. And then the door slams closed again and both of their children are gone.

Vanilla and Lindsey wait until the sound of running footsteps have faded away before stealing a glance in each other's direction.

'And you know, I think they may be teaching each other a few things,' Vanilla says eventually, without even a note of surprise.

_Well, like mother, like child_, Lindsey supposes, while cautiously checking the sink for anything of the non-poisonous variety.

* * *


	2. Vector, Charmy

**I'm pretty sure this is cheating, because Vector and Charmy are regularly seen together as part of the Chaotix Detective Agency. But rarely without the presence of Espio, so... this still kinda fits (besides I had nowhere else to put it. Hee.) Final word count: 326**

**Reviews and concrit are appreciated, especially since I've never written these two before. **

* * *

Always Pays to Be Prepared. 

'Sunglasses?'

'Check.'

'Sun Block?'

'Check.'

'Regional Maps?'

'Check.'

'Toothpaste?'

'Che— Wait, what?'

'Yeah, toothpaste, trust me, you never know when you're gonna need it.' It's important to prepare for these things, Vector thinks. Besides, he's a croc, right? Crocodile? Toothpaste? They're kinda essential to each other's maintenance.

'Oh... okay then. Check.'

'Insect Repellent?'

'Che— heeey!'

'Whoops. Sorry, Charmy, no offence intended. I mean the _small, irritating squirmy little bug, not general insect-species' _repellent.'

'Thanks. I think. Check.'

'Emergency food supplies?'

'Um... Yeah, check, but...'

'But what?' Surely he doesn't think they need any more of them? 'What's up, don't ya think we brought enough?'

'Uh, not that, Vector, It's just...'

'Just what? C'mon little guy, spit it out.'

'Well, are we sure we can fit all that cake in our luggage?'

Vector draws a deep breath and tuts to himself. 'Charmy, my little pal, you know I'm an honest croc if ever there was one, right? No way am I spending two weeks on the other side of Angel Island without any of Vanilla's Angel Food Cake. Besides, it's important. You never ever turn down food that a lady has prepared for you especially.'

'Oh... Why not?'

'Well, because... because it's just not the good thing to _do_, that's why.' He counts the cupcakes. He should really save one of those for Espio.

Charmy groans impatiently. 'Aw, Vector, wouldn't it be easier just to kiss her and—'

'Hey! See now that's what we call improper behaviour, too.' The poor kid knows nothing of the ways of the world, Vector thinks. But he'll learn; when he's older. 'It ain't the polite nor the proper way that a guy shows his gratitude when a woman spends her good time on him, all kindly like.'

'Oh... alright.'

'Good. And for the record, I gots dibs on that Cheesecake.'

Sigh '_Fine_.'

'So that's three containers of angel food cake, six cupcakes, a meringue pie, a lemon cheesecake, two vegetable soufflés for Espio and three... no, _four_ cartons of orange juice?'

'Check.'

'Beach towels?'

'Check...'

* * *


	3. Helen, Tails

**Another one shot with Tails and Helen (was this girl ever _given_ a surname? I don't think she was...) as the focus. Based on a reviewer's idea. Thank you to her for that. Reviews and concrit are appreciated.**

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First Steps.

They don't know each other as well as she would like them to. Which is why Helen is rather surprised when he offers her the gift.

'What is it?'

'It's... it's a present for you. I made it, but it's kinda from all of us.'

'_Another_ one?' That makes twelve presents in total. One for every year of her life, Helen thinks. That's so many that she wonders what she did to deserve them all. But this last one is wrapped in newspaper and bubble wrap rather than pretty pink paper and ribbons, and she can't imagine why he wants to give it to her _now_, two hours after the party is over and all the balloons have gone flat.

'Heh. Yeah.' He shuffles from one foot to the other, the same way Chris does when nervous. 'Happy birthday, Helen.'

He gives it to her gingerly; as if he's afraid she might refuse and is ready to take it back at a moment's notice. The package is a strange and heavy weight in her deadwood lap. She feels metal and plastic beneath the thick paper and feels the need to unwrap the gift as carefully as he handed it to her.

It takes Helen several long seconds to work out exactly what they are and how she is supposed to use them. Her breath catches in her throat the moment she does.

'It's just an experiment, really,' he mumbles. 'A prototype. It was Sonic's idea and... and Grandpa Chuck helped. We made them for you, I mean... That is if you _want_ them.'

Sonic.

Helen remembers that Sonic simply hadn't... understood. He had _tried_ to –there was no doubt about that. He'd spent an entire ten minutes just sitting there and staring at Helen's chair (and ten minutes was surely a very long time for the Fastest Hedgehog Alive). She had even let him prod her legs a bit as he was trying to work them out. He could understand people not being as fast as him, but he never _understood_ the idea of not being able to walk or run _at all_.

'Um...' Tails shuffles again. Even in the dim light, Helen can see his face turning red beneath white fur. 'Are... you mad? I mean, we didn't want to intrude or anything, we just thought it might be a good idea and... um.'

It's cold out here in the garage, but not cold enough for her hands to be trembling the way they are. She looks at him. 'Will... will you help me?'

* * *

Actually, she's lucky that he _does_ stay to help. She doesn't think she would've been able to work them out on her own.

It takes her half an hour even with Tails' assistance. He points out every adjustment that needs to be made. Every little pad and platform, taking on the role of muscles which don't work properly. He has to show her where all the straps go –how there's a carefully aligned position for ever toe and a pressure-spot for every muscle and a bunch of other things which Helen doesn't understand. Basically, they look like large shoes made out of strips of metal and plastic, all joined together with wiring. And they're _noisy_ when he finally gets around to turning them on via the switch on her right heel. They burr and whirr in her ears, like the sound you hear if you put your head against the windowpane on a moving bus.

'Um. Like I said. Prototype,' Tails says sheepishly. Then he stands aside and helps her stumble upwards, first onto her knees and then to her feet. 'I'm afraid I can't do anything about the noise or the vibrations, but they should work okay in spite of that. Um... do you... like them?'

For a while, Helen can't think how to answer. The lack of sensation below her calves –something which has been there (or _not_ there, really) all her life– is suddenly very frightening. It feels like there is nothing to support her and she could fall any moment. She can sense the weight of her own body pressing downwards, squeezing against the sides of her new boots' metal frames. The pressure pads shift and adjust with every twitch and movement they keep her steady and balanced enough that she doesn't topple over at once. If she moves faster she imagines it'll be harder to keep her weight and balance in check.

'That's it! You got it in one go, Helen!' Tails is smiling at her proudly and she isn't sure if he's happier with her or with himself. She wonders if he's ever done anything like this before, and whether or not this would be nothing in the world he comes from.

She wonders if he has any idea just how much this means to her.

'Hey, don't cry! Do they hurt? We can turn them off again if they hurt; you just have to sit down...'

Somehow she finds her tongue for long enough to say "no, no it's alright". It's just the angle and the sense of height that she needs to get used to, she realises. The same as waking up after a trip to the hospital. It's like running with Sonic, or like being very small again and daddy picking her up and throwing her over his head. She feels like spreading her arms, the way she did during those childhood games, but is afraid to in case she falls.

She tries it anyway, reaching out her fingers to the wall. She stumbles and Tails has to catch her. The metal braces screech against the concrete, the batter sputters but they don't give way. They hold her as firmly and steadily as her chair ever did.

She's never been so _tall_ before... It's almost enough to make her laugh out loud.

'It all comes down to practise,' Tails reassures her. 'We've never tried anything like this before, see? So it's just like you're learning to walk for the first time, just like a baby. We can develop them further, too. Have them go right up your legs, so you can run.'

'Run? You... you mean... really _run_?' Running faster than her chair could go? Running to keep up with the boy's in a game of soccer, running with both feet off the ground? Running like Sonic, with no ground beneath them and nothing to stop her ahead or inside.

'Sure, we think so. If we can find a way to make the metal lighter and simplify the systems then why not? But even babies have to walk before they can run, Helen.'

Helen is starting to _feel_ just like a baby now. There are tears pouring over her cheeks and she can't think how to stop them. Tails seems to understand them now and doesn't say anything. Just stands there and holds onto her hands.

'How can I ever...'

'You don't have to, Helen.' He smiles at her broadly. 'I'm just glad that you like them.'

Helen says nothing. She feels happy enough that her heart might burst, standing here on the night of her twelfth birthday, with metal wrapped around her senseless legs and a feeling of height and distance that she's never had before.

And after about two minutes of standing there with her arms outstretched, and with a two tailed fox (who is quite possibly the nicest and cleverest person she's ever met in all the world) holding her hands in his, twelve year old Helen takes her first steps –shakily, and with a loud whirring noise– across the garage floor.

* * *

**This fic was an idea by Sonnikku17, who reviewed the last chapter and came up with these two characters, and this concept, though I couldn't quote extend the idea as far as making them supersonic, as much fun as that would be. A big thank you to her for the suggestion.**

* * *


	4. Big, Shadow

**Inspired by the story of The Scissor Cat" which accompanied an image on Deviant Art. reviews and concrit are appreciated.**

* * *

There Will Always Be More Fish.

He catches his first fish late in the evening.

Which is good. Because it means that the lake will probably be thick with them by morning. More fishing for him. Some nights they come out of hiding and some they don't. If they don't emerge during the day then they are almost certain to during the night.

It's a small and silvery thing; like a minnow, only bigger, and its skin shimmers with a bunch of different colours in the moonlight. It seems quite tiny within his hands, spitting and jumping and twisting as he tries to pull out the hook.

'Hey there, now stay _still_,' he tells it firmly, but the fish pays him no heed (they never do). It keeps on struggling and wriggling until it's tired itself out enough so that he can carefully prise the little sharp piece of metal away from its grey lips.

Big regards it for a moment, and Froggy, sitting on the nearby rock, ribbit's quietly and regards them both. The fish doesn't make a sound.

Big wonders -not for the first time- how it _breaths_ down there. It's funny how different creatures can only live in certain ways and don't like it when you take them out of the place where they grew up. Why would anything want to grow up under all that cold, wet water, anyway?

Whatever the case may be, wanting to live in wetness has sure lead to the creation of some funny looking creatures. It makes Big think about that little human boy and how different his world was in comparison to theirs.

Lakes are pretty much the same no matter which world you're in, though. Big is fine with most places. As long as he can fish and sleep, then it doesn't really matter to him where he is, and yet the little fishy seems to hate being so far away from its home.

One of the fish's unblinking eyes stares up at him so forlornly that Big feels quite sorry for it. He takes it back to the edge of the water and releases it carefully. It lies very still between his paws at first, and then it seems to realise that everything's good and cold and wet again, flicks its little tail and is gone. Big watches it vanish, feeling satisfied.

'Why did you do that?' a voice asks from nowhere.

Big looks around. The trees are murky and still and the lake behind him even stiller. He can't see where the voice is coming from at first; then he gazes a little bit harder into a nearby patch of wood and he can see the outline of a figure and a pair of red eyes staring through the leaves.

Big grins. 'Oh, hello there.'

The shadow with the red eyes doesn't answer. It seems to be watching the lake, fixed on the spot where Big had let the fish go. 'You could've eaten it or something,' it says eventually.

'Yup, I guess I could've done that,' Big shrugs, sitting himself back down next to Froggy under their favourite tree.

'But you didn't.' The shadow said, dryly. It doesn't sound very nice, Big thinks, but it isn't being especially mean either. He supposes they are good enough questions. 'Won't you be hungry?'

'Maybe. I might go pick some fruit,' Big says. He scratches one ear and looks around for his fishing rod.

'But why waste your energy?' the shadow asks again, and this time it sounds frustrated. Big has to think for a moment before he gives his answer. 'You're telling me you just sat there for hours so you could catch the thing, only to let it go again right away?'

'Sure I did. It was nice to catch the fish, y'see,' he says, at last. 'But it's nicer to watch it swimming away again. 'Sides if we hadn't put it back again it would'a died. Fish get real funny if you take them out of the water for too long, didn't you know?'

'Everything dies,' the shadow responds in a dry voice which suggests that in knows exactly what it's talking about. 'Why delay the inevitable at your own expense? It's not a person.'

'Guess that's so. But Froggy and I don't really think about things like that,' Big answers, and Froggy ribbit's in agreement. 'And we didn't really need the fish. I might catch another one, later,' Big adds thoughtfully, and finds that he is rather looking forwards to that.

'I suppose.' The shadow doesn't sound entirely convinced. '...There'll always be more fish.'

'Yup, that's what I say,' Big gives the shadow a smile.

They look at each other for a moment which seems to last far longer than most moments do, then Big looks away to pick up his fishing rod. When he looks back there is no sign of the shadow. He watches the space where it had been, thinking for a while, and then looks back into the water. It really is very late, he thinks, and Froggy has been jumping in and out of the silt, so there is plenty of mud rising to the surface of the lake for the fish to hide in.

Maybe he'll catch a salmon this time...

* * *


	5. Leon, Molly

**A one shot for Molly and Leon, during the episode "Molly's Dream". I always imagined there was so much more to both of them that previously assumed and, though this is not as original as I would like it to be, I think it gets my point across well enough. Standard disclaimers apply. Reviews and concrit are appreciated. **

* * *

Subterfuge. 

As children, they rode Tark-Bears together at Molly's farm. The bears always hated it, and needed a lot of careful training and encouragement, so when Leon first got behind the controls of a flying machine which _didn't_ have a mind of its own, he had at least a rough idea of how it was supposed to work – it couldn't possibly be any more difficult than breaking-in a Tark, right?

Right.

Anyway, he only remembered the story about the bears because she reminded him of it on an almost-regular basis. Molly had a good memory. She recalled every single little thing ever spoken to her and many times as a child he found her in the libraries, poring over books she was far too young to understand the words of, just because they had awesome pictures of powerful heroes in deep, dark cloaks. There were no such heroes in the real world, of course, which was something that Molly had never come to understand; not even after the Metarex came and razed their planet until nothing remained but ashes and dust and a few determined revolutionaries who had been growing less and less determined ever since.

That was then, and this was now, and now...

Well. Now.

"Historical Documents" he told her, and then he sent her off to die in a wasteland that had been unrecorded by any historian for as long as he could remember. Who wanted to keep records of nothing? Because that was what their world was now; nothing. Just a husk and a shell of dirt and Metarex. There was nothing remaining that was worth protecting anymore.

Before she went, she smiled at him and squeezed his hand for a brief second, the way she did when they were children. It was the kind of reminder he didn't need, because they hadn't been children in such a very long time that it was almost impossible to think of.

Molly remembered. She remembered things so well that she could quote old conversations back to him, word for word: things he didn't remember hearing or seeing and couldn't ever imagine happening again. She was probably remembering those things right now, as she squeezed his hand when no one else was looking and offered him a last naive smile.

He plotted their route very carefully for all the wrong reasons. Their new "allies" are powerful, certainly, but they clearly aren't immune to trickery. He hasn't had time to plot for their involvement, but it probably won't matter anyway. Surely not even Molly's beloved "Black Wind" can outrun an exploding bomb.

The Metarex numbers in that area were increasing every day, too; if they didn't get her then the time bomb would. It won't fail. He designed it himself. picked out every wire and measured out the powders so accurately that death would be both quick and painless. She wouldn't have time to wonder who's fault this could be, and therefore she wouldn't have time to remember their old drill lessons as small children just after the war began. She wouldn't remember that nobody but him could create a time bomb so accurately out of such shoddy materials. In the last second of life, she would not blame him.

This doesn't make him feel any better, and he tried very hard to pretend that he was doing the right thing as he watched her leave, wondering vaguely in the back of his mind whether or not she remembered that they had been to that area before, in the days when things weren't quite so bad, and that there had been no such historical documents there at the time.

He hopes the Metarex get her first.

* * *


	6. Galaxina, Earthia

****

It's been a long while since I wrote something quite this whimsical and sentimental (read: mawkish) but I'm rather fond of it. Standard disclaimers apply. Reviews and concrit are appreciated.

* * *

"_Every rose has its thorn." _- Poison.

Mother.

Galaxina dreams quite often. In fact she has experienced at least one distinctive, memorable vision every night for as long as she can remember: dreams of shooting stars and distant worlds and her one-time home world crumbling into dust as her remaining people made their escape in the craft Galaxina now calls home.

Somehow, these dreams always smell of Rose Blossoms to her, though she has never understood why. Her own delicately curled adornments are irises, mother smells of so many different types of petal that it's impossible to pin her down, and there is no one else on board their ship who bares that particular type of bloom. Their home –whatever remained of it, even in the old days– is a long gone memory.

If there is one thing that remains constant for Galaxina's kind however, even out here in space, then that one thing is the end of life. It is simply the way of things. And she knows fine well that mother is getting older. Her voice is growing thicker with age, and creaks like dry wood. This is the first sign, not of age, but of maturity. Of the potential for new seeds and new life growing deep within mother's heart. Her eyes change from beautiful blue to mossy green and the scent of long-extinct pollens and blossoms fills every breath which touches Galaxina's cheek whenever she comes close.

But mother continues to talk; to laugh and to smile and woe betides anyone who tries to keep her from her rightful place on the bridge. She talks more in Galaxina's mind now than she ever did before, but otherwise there is no apparent sign that she is growing weaker.

Yet stronger at the same time, or so she says. There is nothing stronger than a tree, after all, and that is what mother shall become. The beginning and end of all things, at least if the stories of Galaxina's people are to be believed. The reality seems to hold true enough to the old stories. Their kind are born from seeds, live on, and become the trees from which they were born, just as was said in the legends.

There are other legends of course –stories that said you could decipher the way in which a person lived while sentient through the marks on their branches and leaves after their death. The history books brought with them from their home planet hold pictures of old warlords who's final forms held blossoms as red as blood, and peacemakers who sprouted thousands of seedlings every summer afterwards. Galaxina tries not to think about what the toughness of mother's skin and the dark mossy greenness of her eyes say about the life that she has lived.

Mother was always beautiful. In her age, Galaxina thinks, she is more beautiful still. She simply cannot think of her as the type of hark-barked, thorn-coated warrior that existed in the old stories. She is sure her mother's final form will hold no thorns at all.

* * *

One night not long after yet another dream of Rose blossoms, Mother speaks to her. 'Galaxina?'

'Yes mother?'

For a moment there is no answer. It has been like this for a while. She will begin a sentence, and Galaxina will respond only to find that mother's thoughts have trailed off into oblivion and she can't remember what she had been about to ask. Eventually Galaxina simply goes back to pruning leaves.

But mother's thoughts are not vague and unfocussed tonight. A few moments later, he speaks again. 'Galaxina... Children.'

Galaxina hesitates with shears in hand. When she looks up, mother is smiling at her through mossy eyes. 'There will be children,' she says again, sounding proud and confident and utterly, totally unafraid. Even though she knows precisely what such a thing means.

Galaxina knows, too. It is what she has longed for and dreaded for as long as she can remember. 'Mother...'

'I can't say how many there will be,' mother smiles at her. 'Perhaps there will be none at all. But all we can do is try. At last, the time has come.'

Galaxina pauses, fingers wrapped tightly around her shears. She feels for a moment like a bare seed, drying up in a cold wind. Mother sees the expression on her face and reaches out an arm. Her skin is dry, barkish and heavy as she enfolds Galaxina in her arms.

'Don't be afraid, dear. Before death comes the greatest form of life. The _bringer_ of life itself. Don't you remember?'

Galaxina knows that mother speaks the truth. '...I remember, mother.'

Mother nods slightly, and they remain that what for a long while, Galaxina counting the delicately forming roots where mothers fingers should be and trying very hard not to be afraid.

* * *

Mother's last child is born soon after she blossoms. These days, her arms reach high into the reams of the ship's ceiling and the fake planet egg provides all the light and heat she needs.

Galaxina is the first to hold the only child in her arms and smile, and see a reflection of mother's spirit deep within her. In her mind, she can feel mother's pride as pure and unsoiled as it had been on the day of Galaxina's birth.

'I almost forgot...we haven't given her a name yet.'

'_Cosmo.' _

Everyone reacts to the words. For mother speaks so little these days, both in their minds and elsewhere, that every word seems all the more important. this word came where they had believed no more words could possibly be.

Galaxina holds the gentle squirming bundle of seedling very gently in her arms and gazes up into mother's branches.

'_Cosmo_,' mother says again._ 'She's the last of my offspring. And the last hope for the galaxy. Guard and protect her. Our future depends on it.'_

They might be mother's last words, Galaxina thinks –at least aloud, though she may continue to hear her in her mind for a few years to come–and she has used them to name her child and proclaim her 

destiny. The entire universe may be found within a single seed, after all, Galaxina thinks. She holds the baby Cosmo tighter still and smiles.

'Do you hear mother?' She asks, faintly. 'You're a very special baby.'

The baby shuffles in her sleep and smiles, oblivious to all around her, except maybe the faint sensation of mother's voice and mother's gentleness in her mind, as it will always be. Galaxina touches her cheek and the seedling's head turns to show the curled and hidden buds contained in the folds of her mother-green hair.

Pink. Pink Roses.

All of a sudden, Galaxina understands the Rose Blossom dreams which she has been having all her life perfectly.

* * *

"_Mama was my greatest teacher, a teacher of compassion, love and fearlessness. If love is sweet as a flower, then my mother is that sweet flower of love.__" _- Stevie Wonder.

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End file.
